draw your swords, shoot me to the ground
by sarasidles
Summary: "If he hurt you, I would tear the world apart. Please, Lisbon, do not doubt me on this." tag to episode 4x24, jane and lisbon talk some things out.


It's been the very definition of a long day. Well, it had been a long six months, more like. Lisbon had once thought that, after over a decade long career at the CBI, she could claim ownership of some outstandingly shitty days. Tonight alone just about tops them all in one.

Sometime around the third month of Jane's disappearance and subsequent radio silence, she'd started keeping scotch in her office for nights like these. It was incredibly unprofessional and something she would've never considered doing prior to Jane's involvement but, then again, prior to Jane's involvement in her life, she probably wouldn't have needed it. Normally she takes one careful sip, sufficient to burn the back of her throat, but little enough that when she places the bottle back in her desk drawer, the ghost of her father doesn't linger too close. Between the extra night runs she'd been going on, insomnia being another parting gift from Jane, and the occasional skipped meal, the indulgence doesn't show. Tonight, she doesn't even touch the bottle, instead methodically making her way through the current build up of paperwork (though, to be honest, it had been significantly less over the past six months) in a feeble attempt at distraction.

_We were lovers, did he tell you? _If she hadn't been so horrified, if her stomach hadn't immediately turned over at Lorelei's words, Lisbon might've laughed at the idea of Jane telling her anything anymore. It was all well and good for Jane to walk out but she'd had to sit there, desperately trying to tamper down the words now thudding furiously against her skull: _We were lovers, did he tell you?_ Of course, once Jane had left, Lorelei had refused to say another word, simply smiling placidly at her across the table.

She's just finished the second stack of forms, the 'L' of her signature developing a particularly savage swoop, when there's a knock on the door. When she looks up, Jane is hovering in the doorway, her usual coffee mug in one hand and patented, tried and tested "you know you want to forgive me" expression across his face.

"A gift for our fearless leader. Working away until dawn, as per usual." He says, grinning. "I've always said that it was your clear thinking, level-headedness that has got us out of many a nasty situations. Who could have known that all we needed was your actual head?" He winks as he offers the mug.

"You run out of attics to skulk in?" She retorts, but still reaches out to accept. Consultant induced headache withstanding, she won't knock back free coffee.

"You're angry at me." He notes, petulantly, as he settles himself uninvited on the couch. Patrick Jane, master of the human psyche, she thinks uncharitably, can tell when people are angry. His lips quirk as though following her thought pattern.

"How'd it go with Lorelei?" He asks and the question is innocent enough, but, paired with the knowing lilt to his tone, she's sure there's some whole extra layer of subtext buried within. In fact, he's rather triumphant about the whole thing – sure, he nearly lost a finger, caused building wide panic, Sarah practically went out of her mind with worry, none of them are going to sleep properly for a good year – but now, they've got Lorelei and that means Jane has won. To him, that's really all that matters. _We were lovers, did he tell you?_

"I'm busy." She says. "Go watch the interview tapes if you really want."

"Eh." He waves a hand dismissively. "I'd much rather hear it from you."

She doesn't reply, he snuggles further into the couch, and for a while they sit in relative silence. She alternates between skim reading and sipping her coffee (which is annoyingly good, for a man who treats the removal of tea leaves as a cardinal sin); he hums and lazily tosses a tennis ball back and forth, procured from god knows where. He seems perfectly content, a vivid contrast from the brand of unhinged intensity he'd been radiating for the last few days and the idea that he can just shake off the whole saga so easily is maddening, to the point where her hand shakes a little from sheer fury, leaving little wavy lines across the paper.

"Come on, Lisbon, you may as well say it," Jane sighs eventually, every inch the world-weary martyr. "Go on, reprimand me for being a bad, wayward consultant once again. Instil lawful values into me. You know you want to."

He sounds so blasé, as though humouring a small child, that angry words burst from her lips before she can help it, surprising them both. "Do you honestly think that they would want this? Do you think Angela wanted you ruining your life?"

Immediately, she winces. It's a low blow and apparently, not the one he was expecting as the tennis ball slips from his grip, bouncing across the floor. While he's mentioned Charlotte to her before (admittedly while drugged, but still), the subject of Angela is firmly off limits, matched only by the finer details of her childhood. Therefore it's very much to her surprise that he doesn't get angry or even look her way.

Instead, Jane says in a very quiet voice, gaze firmly trained on the roof, "Don't you understand that I'd do the same thing for you?"

She stares at him. This is not a conversation she thought she would ever be having with Jane, especially tonight. Without even meaning to, she shuffles the chair legs around so she's now facing the couch. "What-"

Still not glancing over, Jane calmly explains, "If he laid a hand on you, and it's starting to look horribly like he will, I would avenge you along with Angela and Charlotte. Perhaps more so, as the wound would still be fresh. I've had ten years to find closure and yet I still wake each more with an overwhelming desire to spill Red John's blood for murdering my family."

"Jane," She begins, "Jane, I don't want that–"

"Tell me you wouldn't do the same." He suddenly demands, propping himself on his elbows, "Tell me that you wouldn't do the same if he hurt Tommy or James or Mark. Don't pretend to be above a personal involvement because I think you've already proved that false tonight."

Lisbon stiffens, her lips set in a thin line. "If, god forbid, my brothers were hurt, I would do everything in my power to find their attacker. I would bring them down and I would see to it that justice was served." She breathes in deeply. "Within the parameters of the law."

She doesn't touch the last sentences, in some kind of foolish hope that maybe tonight he'll respect the boundaries she's set, but, true to form, he pushes: "What about if he hurt me, Lisbon? What if you walked in your office tomorrow morning to find a smile painted in blood over my dead body? What would good old Saint Teresa do then?"

It's a cruel tactic, even for him. He has to know that that has been her number one fear for several years now, doubly so lately. Jane always been her blind spot and while he's never shied away from exploiting that fact, he's never been so brazen as to acknowledge it. Her knuckles turn white as she grips the chair arms. "Don't try and turn me into you."

There's a flicker of something unreadable in his otherwise carefully guarded expression, the goading smirk slipping, and she considers it payback for the Lorelei dig. It's gone within a second, though, and then he chuckles. "Oh, I don't think there's any danger of that, my dear. You're far too good for that."

"You're far too good for me." He continues, softly, sitting up now and leaning forward so their knees bump together. He reaches out to touch his hand to hers and she pulls back.

"Ah. Still mad then."

"No." _Yes_. "I'm not mad, Jane. I just – I don't know how far I can trust you anymore."

This time he's the one who recoils, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "You don't trust me?" He asks, as though as he can't possibly fathom why.

"How can I?" She asks in return, equally incredulous, refusing to let him cow her. "You manipulate people to your advantage, Jane. I've always known that. That's what makes you useful to the CBI. But, god knows why, I always that I – the team – would count as some kind of exception to the rule. That you wouldn't just discard us when we became a burden."

"Teresa," He says, in an attempt to placate her, but the pointed use of her first name only serves to infuriate her further, "You have to know that I would never –"

"No, _Patrick_," She spits, six months – ten years - worth of repressed anger bubbling painfully to the surface, "I don't know that! I was worried sick about you and you didn't even call! You constantly lie to me, you undermine my authority, you don't respect me, you vanish whenever it suits you, you tell me you _love_ me and –" She pauses, cheeks flushed. She hadn't meant to say that, had intended to keep it buried in her memory, along side high school reunion dances and shipping container conversations.

"I do respect you," Jane interjects and she cuts him off with a scowl. She's had several hours alone in her office to work up to this rant and she'll be damned if he cushions the blow before she's even halfway through.

"No, you don't, and that's not the point right now. You had sex with Lorelei to gain information. Honestly, Jane, how am I supposed to trust anything you say or do? How am I supposed to trust that this whole friendship hasn't been just a lie, another means to an end?" And here it is, what has really kept her back late tonight - not the sleeping with Lorelei, as she's sure he suspects. No, that she could deal with. After all, Patrick Jane isn't hers to claim and, as much as she might not like it, she can hardly begrudge him the desire for a warm body to sleep beside. Even if it is the first in years. But the suggestion that the closest relationship in her life has all been a carefully orchestrated con is more painful than any physical blow.

He scoffs at the very idea. "Of course not. Our friendship is very real. What you mean to me isn't a lie, Lisbon."

"Would you sleep with me for Red John?" She asks, ruthlessly. Her cheeks are burning now and she sits on her hands to avoid them straying up to brush against her cross but she has to know. As much as it hurts to consider, she may have to accept that Jane means more to her than she does to him, that the years spent working together really have been out of a lack of options rather than any kind of personal attachment. If she doesn't arm herself with the truth now, she's not sure if she'll survive the next onslaught.

"I – _what_?" Jane chokes, physically jolting, his legs knocking hard against hers.

"Would you sleep with me to buy my compliance? Is that what the "love you" was about? Are you planning on using my feelings for you as another way to get what you want? I won't continue being a pawn in this messed up game, especially if I have to worry about how both of you are going to use me. I am the Senior Agent in charge of the Red John case, not some damsel in distress or wannabe girlfriend or whatever the hell else role you want me to play next week."

For once in both their lives, she seems to have rendered him speechless, his face stricken.

"Jane, Red John asked for my head in a box." She says, all the fight fading out her nearly as quickly as it had flared. That was the trouble with Patrick Jane; the constant mental gymnastics were never without the resulting exhaustion. "Sure, it made a good ultimatum, a nice little moral crossroads for you, but some part of him had to wonder if you'd actually do it. For a while, they even bought our little charade. In fact, everyone accepted that you had shot me a little too easily for me to not be a little concerned."

"You actually think that I would harm you to get to Red John?" He sounds sick. He sounds betrayed. It's probably about his turn.

"Never stopped you before." It's true that he's never put her in physical danger before but there's more than one way to hurt a person and tonight, fake or not, he still aimed a gun at her chest. She shrugs, the whole thing now seeming very matter of fact. This is generally when their fights start to lose steam, at least on an emotional level, as going any further stays into topics far too dangerous and too hard to close once opened. Tomorrow, he'll bring her pastries from Marie's or compliment her on her hair, pander to her enough that she softens. Until the next time someone finds a dead body tagged with a blood red smile and some sick bastard decides to torture Jane a little further.

However, this time, Jane briefly shuts his eyes and ducks his head. For someone who prides themselves on a overwhelming sense of presence to charm, it's as good as turning tail and running. When he looks up again, her heart stutters a little at the ugly, near manic expression on his face. He looks a little like he did when she'd first met him, all frayed edges and wild bright eyes, but her minds eye provides a quick, traitorous reel of all times he's successfully fooled her before as to his mental state. When she shifts, preparing to return to her work, he pushes up violently from the couch and her chair automatically skitters back as his weight moves against it. There's another perfectly functional chair on the other side of her desk and yet he drops to his knees before her feet, head bowed. Immediately, she sucks in a breath.

"Jane, get up," Lisbon orders, her voice wavering a little because he looks simultaneously like a man proposing and a man paying penance and she's not sure which option is more terrifying. "Don't be ridiculous." He ignores her. It's hardly a surprise.

His hands come to rest lightly on her knees and she thinks she might stop breathing altogether. "Red John asked for your death, Teresa, because he knew that was the one thing I'd never give. _Ever._ If he hurt you, I would tear the world apart. Please, Lisbon, do not doubt me on this." The height difference between them means that Jane's forehead is now at her collarbone level and her hands instinctively grip his shoulders.

Still kneeling, he looks up to her. "Just for the record, I respect you a great deal. And if I sleep with you, it's going to be because I want to and not because of anyone else. I-I know I've hurt you, a lot, and I can't promise that I won't again. I'm _sorry_." Jane exhales harshly, warm breath ghosting along her legs. "You were right that Lorelei was a means to an end. But you, dear Teresa, you are an end. I do love you." He falters, voice rough and she tilts her head back, blinking against the tears that immediately form. The words hit her just hard as they did before, honeyed verbal daggers sliding between her ribs. "I just can't- I _can't_- not _yet_. You can't be that yet. It's still too much."

She absolutely should not give in. She shouldn't let him string her along with a deliberately sweet words and the empty promise of "not yet", not when that condition didn't apply to Kristina or Lorelei. She should yell again, demand more until she's taken enough from him to fill all the different ways in which he has broken her. She should fire him, she should quit, she should move towns and leave all this fucking baggage behind. She should finally give everyone a reason to stop whispering about how she can possibly control him, doesn't she understand that he's ruining her career? She should do a lot of things.

"Trust me," He all but begs and, lord help her, she does.

"Okay." She breathes, fingers threading into the curls at the back of his neck. "Okay."

Hand running up and down her calf, he gently kisses her left knee, achingly tender, and the skin beneath her slacks burns at the contact. Then, Jane rises unsteadily to his feet, his own cheeks a little pink and hair mussed from her grip. The sight of him so rumpled and shaky is so of character that she smiles involuntarily before covering it quickly, lest he thinks she's laughing at him. That's the last thing she feels like doing right now and her thumb presses into her knee, indenting the place where his lips just were.

He pauses at her office door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Lisbon?"

It's a question, not a statement, and she nods in response. "Yeah, you will."

Something resembling his usual cocky smirk seeps back into his expression. "Bright and early, partner."


End file.
